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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705047">goodbye == second chance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilllost/pseuds/stilllost'>stilllost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M, gratuitous angst, maybe even more than the original</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:20:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilllost/pseuds/stilllost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years marks the distance between Percy and Annabeth, but it feels like ages, made tangible by the bags under her eyes and the apathy in his. The last time they saw each other, there were tears and yelling, then stillness and whispers. </p><p>But <i>now?</i></p><p>Now, there's barely even silence.</p><p>(Written out of nostalgia for thelostrelic's "Sometimes Goodbye Is A Second Chance", an incomplete story that's nearing a decade in age)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. return;</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's his first night back in New York and Percy Jackson spends it at a party, thinking he's acting like an idiot.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The message comes courtesy of one Thalia Grace. It contains an address, a time, and the word "party", but in all caps and followed by a row of exclamation marks. </p><p>In seconds, a new text bubble appears. </p><p>
  <em>welcome back. </em>
</p><p>Then—</p><p>
  <em>nobody missed you. :P</em>
</p><p>And even though his eyes threaten to roll out of their sockets, Percy Jackson finds a thin smile playing on his lips. </p><p>...</p><p>His cousin always had a penchant for goading him into doing stupid things, but really, this time, Percy blames himself. Between the fact that he's less than fond of the faces he encounters and still a bit jetlagged, a party is hardly the place he should be. Yet here he was, toeing the thin line that separates curiosity from stupidity. The venue of choice is an abandoned subway tunnel painted in the neon haze of lights and forgettable music. Unfortunately, all the booze in the world couldn't distract from the reality that a bunch of kids are idling around in a dank subterranean hole because it's the least boring thing they could think of.</p><p>Maybe he can cough up a lackluster excuse. Or, slip away before doing something he regrets.</p><p>Percy lingers over the idea for what seems like hours, but never acts on it.</p><p>Like staying is some terrible secret that's caught in his throat.</p><p>Like he's waiting for something. </p><p>Worse, <em>someone</em>.</p><p>He stifles the thought with a grimace and spends the next hour exchanging pleasantries with old foes. To be honest, he's not sure if he can even call them that. Silena. Calypso. Drew. Even Luke. Back then, they were just stupid kids, and who was he to hold grudges?</p><p>None of them can remember his name, which isn't surprising, and when he slips them the introduction it feels more like a gratifying knife between the ribs. He's probably a terrible person for enjoying their stares of realization, the way they eye all of him like it can't be true. (He doesn't care, they can be terrible together.)</p><p>
  <em>Percy? </em>
</p><p>Each of their voices always starts in a hushed whisper and ends up smothering him with questions, sometimes apologies.</p><p>
  <em>Percy Jackson? </em>
</p><p>In the end, it doesn't matter. Because Percy Jackson still feels utterly foreign in the grand dance of party politics. Because "Percy Jackson" is not the name gnawing at his mind tonight.</p><p>But no matter how many faces he flips through, how much history he retreads, he never finds her. </p><p>...</p><p>By midnight, Percy resigns himself to failure and the subsequent company of his derision. His mind seldom pulled punches, much less against itself. So it spares him none of the details; his own weakness, being so fickle, so lost that he couldn't even put aside one name. Three syllables that would travel the tip of his tongue, part his lips, and end as plumes of condensed vapor in air.</p><p>Three syllables. Sounds that are rough with disuse, and attached to memories. The glint of her teeth in a smile. How things had changed, so drastically, that the smile punctures more than it comforts. And also, bookmarked between the bitter goodbye and ironic indulgent helloes, the undeniable warmth of her voice.</p><p>"Killer party, huh?"</p><p>At this point, it occurs to Percy that he's not the only one taking refuge in the bus stop. He's too tired to respond to the stranger's sarcasm—too heated to even meet their eyes. </p><p>But words slip out anyway. </p><p>"It's just... "</p><p>Percy hesitates and swallows, surprises himself with his willingness to speak. </p><p>"Not your thing?"</p><p>"Yeah," he exhales. "Something like that."</p><p>The bus arrives on cue, mostly empty, pretty loud. Percy drags himself into the embrace of its air conditioned world. It's all a muddled mess to the boy—stumbling, finding a seat, leaning against the window. Eyes half-lidded, he watches as snowflakes yellow against the dim of streetlights.</p><p>And in the distance, as winter begins to bury New York, the stranger shrinks. </p><p>She's just sitting there.</p><p>Like she's waiting for something. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. cats, buildings, and people</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The night before, through Annabeth's eyes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tolerate is a strong word. </p><p>Annabeth tolerates Luke, in the same way a cat may tolerate its owner. But when she puts it that way their relationship sounds really messed up, so maybe he's the cat and she the owner. In the end, she's 99% sure that it's messed up no matter how she puts it, and the leftover percentage is bothering her more than the knocking at the door.</p><p>It's Thalia. She's accompanied by another invitation to the damn subway tunnel. Annabeth tells her she knows, already. She tells her the same thing that she told Luke — "maybe<em>.</em>"</p><p>The response is a thin smile and, "You absolutely <em>need</em> to come." </p><p>To which Annabeth shoots a glance that's some combination of "why" with "please no surprises."</p><p>"No reason in particular," Thalia says, lips curling even tighter.</p><p>And she's lying of course.</p><p>...</p><p>Annabeth would've preferred a surprise, when the alternative is a more than tipsy Luke. His voice is rough with alcohol, lust, self-loathing, and she has to practically peel him away from a cooler, among other things. What's more, he's babbling about something that she can't quite make out and smiling like it's his birthday today, and tomorrow, and the day after that too.</p><p>"Okay," she says, struggling to rescue her malfunctioning man-child. "Up you go."</p><p>And he does, but into a table, then people.</p><p>Is there some universal quota of excuse-me's and sorry's one can say in a night? Because she thinks this is a great way to exceed it. At the very least, Luke slurs out a word that resembles the sound of sorry, and she can't help but mirror the miserable smug on his face.</p><p>...</p><p>After a brief war of fifteen minutes, Annabeth returns to something else. </p><p>Percy.</p><p>
  <em>Percy fucking Jackson.</em>
</p><p>The words tumble from her brain and, suddenly, she's buzzed without a sip of anything. </p><p>He's... different.</p><p>Taller, she thinks, and there's more meat on his bones than she remembers. Back then, when he was scrawny and timid and stupid, in the best ways possible. But there's no denying that it's him, because he's just sitting in the corner like an idiot—some seaweed brained idiot who's lodging her heart against her ribcage.</p><p>And then he turns, enough for her to catch a glimpse—</p><p>Of his eyes, which are handsome and cold, and his smile, which is counterfeit and pleasant, in the worst ways possible.</p><p>Annabeth flees so fast that she forgets to kill Thalia Grace.</p><p>...</p><p>Midnight finds her sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus she isn't going to take. There, in the relative silence of seclusion, the same thoughts run through her head again. And again, and again, until her hands are clammy and gross from sweat, even though it's freezing outside. She pulls her jacket closer and runs through them once more.</p><p><em>Of course</em> people aren't cats, they're more like buildings.</p><p>They have their bases, a foundation of wants and needs. (Annabeth needs to talk to him, but wants to stay silent.)</p><p>Walls, brick and mortar, as to provide some modicum of structure. (Luke is rickety and full of little holes; Annabeth has more than she cares to admit.)</p><p>Then, furniture, baggage, issues stacked messily in some corner of themselves.</p><p>And <em>people</em>. People living within people. (Of all the people inhabiting her mind, the boy with the sea-green eyes was her favorite.)</p><p>But when it came to Percy Jackson, she'd burnt the yard, broke all the windows, lost all the pieces. And now, something had changed. Gone was the timid, scrawny boy. It was like the windows had been replaced with stained glass that was oh-so-pretty and oh-so-impossible to see through. Annabeth purses her lips, because, <em>god</em>, it all sounds so trite and fucked up. <em>People</em> are people, and she was the common factor in all of her people problems. To this, she's resigned. </p><p>And that would be that.</p><p>Except.</p><p>The fates have a sense of humor that defies belief. By the rustling of his coat and the white of his breath, somebody has joined her. A brief glance confirms the unthinkable, and before she can carefully craft a response (or check if she's too sober to try), Annabeth speaks.</p><p>"Killer party, huh?"</p><p>For the first time in a long time, she hears his voice. This too, was a moment that she'd run through her head over and over again. Would there be a flood of words, clawing at her ears, coated in bile and venom? Or breathless silence, punctuated by the wind and tiny snowflakes in their hair?</p><p>But fuck that.</p><p>It doesn't last long, and she's not even sure if he's lucid enough to know who she is.</p><p>It just feels natural. Like you're talking to a friend and nothing in the whole damn world matters.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back in 2012, which really seems likes ages ago, thelostrelic wrote a story. I remember coming home from elementary school and stealing away to read it. Of course, looking back on it all, it probably wasn't as well written as past me would like (to be fair, we were all children). Maybe that's why he did it. Whatever the case, thelostrelic nuked his stories and that was that. His now barren profile page reads simply <i>deficit omne quod nasciture - thank you</i> or, everything that is born, passes away.</p><p>I don't necessarily disagree, but omnia mutantur nihil interit.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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